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-that Mr John Clerk will give you his Europa riding upon the BullMr Gordon his Danae-Mr Crawford his Potiphar's Wife-and the Duke of Hamilton his Magdalene. I wonder whether Dr Ritchie and Principal Baird will approve of all this, as likely to edify the younger part of their congregation, particularly the ladies, who, I regret to say, occupy so disproportionate a part in all other Edinburgh congregations, as well as in theirs. As to sculpture! I am really quite at a loss to understand what you mean. There is no statuary here that ever I heard of, and very few any where else, worthy of being known either to you or me. of-Paris casts, however, are probably all you look to; and I dare say, by means of proper interest, you may get tolerable copies of the Venus, the Antinous, the Hermaphrodite, &c. at a very reasonable expense. Do so. I give you fair warning, gentlemen, that I am a ruling elder of the kirk, and that I will certainly bring in an overture against you and all your doings, if I be spared till next meeting of the General Assembly.

Plaster

The last of your proposed improvements tickles me mightily. You can't sit in pews like other Christians, forsooth, you would have St Giles furnished with "sofas screwed to the floor." I wonder you omitted to mention an ottoman or two for the Dilettanti Society in the midst, or perhaps an easy fauteuil for the spokesman of the Architectural Committee. You are too fine by half for your age and country. We plain Scots true-blues are still contented to sit on wooden benches, and hear the gospel just as our forefathers used to do; but you can't think of going to church unless you have velvet cushions to loll upon, and pictures and statues to stare at in the intervals of the discourse. In your next Report, I expect to see you dropping hints that you mean to bring your pipes and tumblers with you, and sit on your ottoman, like so many captains of Knocktarlitie, puffing tobacco and swigging gin-twist, as if you were still at Young's tavern. There is no saying what fine things the world might come to, if the Dilettanti Society had the inspection of all churches and chapels consigned to their care by an act of parliament. To VOL. III.

be serious, you had better have a meeting with Bailie Johnston and Sir William Rae, at Bill Young's, burn the Report, and get tipsey as you used to do, without troubling your heads any farther about matters you don't understand. Farewell. Your affectionate Brother,

MORDECAI MULLION, F.D.S.E. From the Sign of the Hen-Coop, Candlemaker's Row, Edinburgh.

LETTERS OF TIMOTHY TICKLER TO EMINENT LITERARY CHARACTERS.

LETTER V.-To the Editor of Blackwood's Magazine.

MY DEAR EDITOR,

WILL you allow me to write a very short article (two pages at the most) on a pamphlet published t'other day in Glasgow, against my friend Dr Chalmers, by a raffish sort of a fellow calling himself Menippus? I hope you will. It is a perfect specimen of that low ribaldry which men of power, genius, and virtue, like Dr Chalmers, are at all times sure to meet with from half-witted and uneducated dunces. On the first hasty glance, it looked sorely like a composition of the Bagman, whose marriage with Miss Spence is, I understand, now quite a settled thing, unless, to use a common but forcible phrase," they split upon settlements.' The strain of its wit reminded me of that sort of talk which is heard from literary travellers at the ordinary of a commercial inn, and may be described somewhat generally by a word well understood in Lancashire, and which has, I believe, been lately introduced into my native city of Glasgow, though I am sure it never can become naturalized in so intellectual a place,—TROTTING. The merit of this practice consists in turning into the ridicule of a set of vulgar fools, some person whose good sense and good manners preserve him from suspecting the brutal blackguardism of the rude knave who is playing off upon him. Menippus, accordingly, would fain TROT Dr Chalmers. But unluckily there is something about the Doctor that all at once converts the TROTTER INTO THE TROTTEE; so that when Menippus eyes the company assembled to witness this refined

3 X

and enlightened entertainment, and is expecting their bland and laudatory smiles, he is a good deal alarmed to descry on every countenance the most unequivocal symptoms of mingled scorn, derision, and disgust.

We have all of us seen something like this happen to professed wags. The face of blank discomfiture worn on such critical occasions outlistons Liston. The chuckling, crowing, wing-clapping bird of game, is at once changed into a screeching fugitive dunghill fowl. He bolts out of the pit-his steel-heels are taken off-he is set loose among the adjacent poultry, and cock, hen, and chicken, pursue him en masse through all the lanes blind and clear, till he hides himself in a dunghill, from which, when all is still, and nothing at hand but some pacific female earock, (a year-old fowl scottice) he comes stealing out again with the feathers all standing on end at the back of his head, and after looking pretty cautiously around him for a few minutes, he at last ventures to crow, in a rough, hoarse, agitated scraugh, ludicrously expressive at one and the same time, of courage and of cowardice. So is it with Menippus.

The simile is a figure of speech of which I am very fond, and in which I am much mistaken if I do not excel. Here then is another. Whoever has strolled much about, either in town or country, may have seen a pig feeding on offal, filth, and garbage. Such pig no sooner beholds you, even though you be moving quite out of his orbit, than off he sets as if you were chasing him, grunting and squeaking, it would be hard to say whether in fear, in sorrow, or in anger. But however that may be, grunting and squeaking long and loudly, He then wheels suddenly round, and comes cantering along as if he was going to charge, using towards you every insult that his imagination (which is vivid) can suggest. Menippus is just such a pig, and happening to meet Dr Chalmers, he must needs be grunting, and exposing himself with his little red bleared eyes, and twisted tail, and cloven trotters, and pendulous ears, and snivelling snout, in all the offended majesty of bristle and squeak, before that worthy divine, who really has no intention of disturbing him, and is even sorry to see the animal putting

himself so much out of his ordinary way on such groundless suspicion of meditated injury.

In a pastoral country, on a hot day, one often sees a great fat lazy bullock rise suddenly up from his lair, and set off, to use a homely and familiar expression, as if the devil were chasing him. Some insect has probably stung him in a tender part. There he goes, walloping along with his huge head lumbering about in all directions,bellowing in the most unseemly and unbecoming manner-and his long tufted tail either brandished about like a flail, or fixed in a line perpendicular to the horizon. Meanwhile, all the other beasts of the field remain stock still-till he has circled and intersected the pasture into every possible figure, with every eye fixed upon him. It soon appears, that all this disturbance is solely owing to the minister of the parish having come suddenly upon the vision of the bullock, who suspects him for an enemy, and gazes with consternation on the honest man's cocked hat. By degrees the bullock becomes familiarised with the clerical dress, and lays himself down, with a lengthening groan, once more into his tallowy laziness, and then begins chewing his cud with a face of calm heavy stupidity, altogether irreconcilable with the idea of his former unweildy gambols. Menippus is that bullock, and Dr Chalmers is that divine.

I ought, however, to beg the Bagman's pardon for supposing him to be Menippus. It is not so. The Bagman has lately been too much employed, along with his elegant coadjutors of the Glasgow Chronicle, with political and literary speculations, to have any leisure time for theology. Besides, the prospect of his marriage must keep him busy. I am this moment informed by our minister that Menippus is a Clergyman.

Tantæne animis celestibus iræ ?

I confess that this intelligence distresses me. I will not review the pamphlet. It is not the first time that I have heard clergymen express a mean and foolish jealousy of Dr Chalmers's splendid reputation. But I did not think that there existed one so base and so blind, as to have been capable of the self-degradation of this pamphlet. Menippus in a manse!

Thersites in a pulpit! Punchinello at a sacramental table!

But, after all, Mr- (I know his name, but I will not expose him) is an object rather of pity than of anger. He has a good mansea good stipend-what more would he have? -and yet he cannot be happy. His broth is poisoned by the consciousness of his own utter insignificance, and when he sees a great and a good man serving his Maker on earth, like Dr Chalmers, with evangelical singleness of heart-and attracting towards him, in his worship of the Creator, the involuntary love and admiration of his creatures-his heart fills with gall, and he can have no rest till he discharges it towards that splendid and victorious preacher. Pitiable, indeed, is such a man—and truly would I pity him did his offences stop here. But the wretched thing is not satisfied with the abuse of the living-he must insult the dead. He tries to turn into ridicule the late good, learned, and pious Dr Findlay, professor of divinity in the university of Glasgow. He stands scoffing beside the grave of him whom all hearts loved. The sanctity of death, and the stillness of its narrow house, cannot touch the shrivelled heart of this senseless buffoon, and that his guilt may want no aggravation, he tells us, while the slaver of his impotent malignity is yet drivelling from his lips, that he knew the good old man well, and was under many obligations to him! Know him well he could not. For what can ignorance know of learning-craft of simplicity -folly of wisdom-vice of virtue? Grant, that while a greasy student of divinity, he might have been once in a session admitted to the tea-table of the reverend old man? What could a rude and indecent clown like him know of a learned divine? But "something too much of this." The creature who once, and once only, had sat at the table of Professor Findlay, and could yet vent brutal jests over his grave, must be lost indeed to every sacred feeling of humanity. One word of disrespect from a young to an old man, has something shocking in it,-but when a young man insults the ashes

of his gray-headed benefactor, lower he cannot sink in shame and in sin.

But, my dear Editor, this is not at all the style in which I usually write, and in good truth it is not like me thus to lose my temper, although perhaps I do well to be angry. The creature has moved my spleen; the fit, however, has gone by, and that Menippus may have no cause to complain of my over-severity (you may show him this letter), I will take leave of him in one more simile.

Some years ago when I visited Leyden, I called one beautiful star-light evening on Professor Klopius, who, like Dr Chalmers, loves and excels in the science of astronomy. His fine large telescope was pitched on a small mound in his garden, and directed towards the Evening Star, which the assisted eye beheld shining in steadfast splendour and startling magnitude. The professor, myself, and a friend, alternately enjoyed through his glorious instrument, the divine face of the heavens,-and when we had all feasted our souls, we stood together talking of the wonders of the modern astronomy. At that moment a tame monkey, which the good professor, who is somewhat of a humourist, is very fond of, came hurkling along, with long arms, bent knees, and posteriors almost touching the ground, and clapt his little grim absurd face, with its bleared watering eyes, close to the wrong end of the telescope, and holding up one of his paws to his right ear, as if he was listening to something, there he stood in a truly philosophical attitude,-just such another sort of an astronomer as Menippus. He then withdrew himself from contemplation with an air of profound abstraction, and joining the party with a face of the most original solemnity I ever beheld, began chattering away, for any thing I know to the contrary, about that beautiful Evening Star. We could not chuse but burst into laughter, except the professor, who looked at him with primitive simplicity, and only exclaimed, "Ah, Tom, Tom, so you are pleased to be a wit!" I am yours truly, TIMOTHY TICKLER. Southside, Aug. 8, 1818.

OR, THE FATE OF THE BRAUNS.

A POEM, IN TWENTY-FOUR CANTOS.*

BY WILLIAM WASTLE, ESQUIRE,

Member of the Dilettanti, Royal, and Antiquarian Societies, and of the Union and Ben
Waters's Clubs of Edinburgh; Honorary Member of the Kunst-und-alterthumsliebers
Gesellschaft of Gottingen, and of the Phoenix Terrarum of Amsterdam, &c. &c. &c.

[graphic]

6

"Two birds, of that kind called Gerandi, continued Cohotorbe, once lived together upon the shores of the Indian sea. After they had long enjoyed the pleasures of conjugal affection, when it was near the season for laying eggs, said the female to the male, It is time for me to choose a proper place wherein to produce my young ones. To whom the male replied, This where we now are, is, I think, a very good place. No,' replied the female, this cannot do; for the sea may hereafter swell beyond these bounds, and the waves carry away my eggs.' That can never be,' said the male, nor dares the Angel Ruler of the Sea do me an injury; for if he should, he knows I will certainly call him to an account. • You must never boast,' replied the female, of a thing which you are not able to perform. What comparison is there between you and the prince of the sea? Take my advice; avoid such quarrels: and, you despise my admonitions, beware you are not ruined by your obstinacy. Remember the misfortune that befell the tortoise."" Pilpay.

6

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*In mentioning, on a former occasion, the number of Cantos in this Poem, the word twenty was omitted by an oversight of the printer. The reader will, we doubt not, be gratified by the correction of that mistake. Canto III. for private reasons, is suppressed till October. It is entirely episodical, as the reader will learn from the opening of Canto IV. EDITOR.

VII.

And Lady Mary Wortley Montague,
Although a clever woman in most things,
Does very wrong when she speaks ill of you,
And 'gainst your skin reproachful sarcasm flings,
Calling it pale, and dead, and dull of hue,

And cold, and clammy-white, like cod's or ling's.
I know not what a lady's taste may be,
But Dutch cheeks oft seemed kissable to me.

VIII.

They want, indeed, the radiance, rich and sunny,
That eastern warmth in eastern regions speaks;
You won't get that swart glow for love or money ;
"Tis not the nature of Batavian cheeks.
But it appears to me extremely funny,

To think one can't kiss any thing but Greeks
And Jewesses, and dark Italian dames,
Merely because they are Lord Byron's flames.
IX.

I'm not at all a bigot in that line;

I'm very liberal in my admiration ;

I think one may find something quite divine
Among the female part of every nation.
At different times I differently incline,
(Consistency in gout's a botheration)
I fall in love, I speak it to my sorrow,
With maidens fair to-day, with dark to-morrow.
X.

The reading public very fiercely blame,
And with much reason too, as I opine,
The introducing of one's real name

Into the pages of this Magazine.

I should esteem it a most heinous shame,
To take such liberties in verse of mine;
Therefore I all particulars suppress,
And slump them in one mass of loveliness.
XI.

Ye bonny lasses! misinterpret not

The motives of the bard, your worshipper;
I sink your names, but may I go to pot,
If therefore be my praise the less sincere.
I value not the breeched tribe a groat,

But would not with one scruple interfere
Of yours for worlds." Fair creatures! to whom
Heaven

A calm and sinless life with love hath given."

XII.

Beauties of every shape, of every hue,
In Caledon's accommodating clime
Spring radiant up; but sorely may ye rue,
If in their company you spend much time :
'Tis sport to them, lads, but 'tis death to you.
How I could rail against them in my rhyme !
Their little, dimpling, fawning, winning wiles;
Their voices falsely sweet, their cunning smiles.

XIII.

She'll hang upon your arm at rout or ball,
As if you were her chosen prop and stay:
And if you peer into her eyes, you shall

Find smiles as bright and warm as the sun's ray.
But if, perchance, upon your knees you fall,
And pop the honest question, by my fay
She'll bridle up, my boy, with mighty glum air,
And look as cool on you as a cucumber.

XIV.

But to return to Holland, and the lasses

That make the windows of the Dutch so clear. Ah! Scottish hizzies! dim your window-glasses, And dirty are yourselves, those maidens near: Even English girls their tidiness surpasses,― 'Tis no great boast to vanquish your's I fear ;Ye are good creatures, I'd lay gold upon it, But most confounded filthy-I must own it.

XV.

And yet not all without thy charms thou art

Burd Grizzy! magic even in thee there lies, Busked on the Sabbath morn most trim and smart, Kirk-ganging gladness dancing in thine eyes, When, from thy rustic toilette thou dost part,

With scarlet hood arranged in graceful plies, With muslin gown, with coat of manky green, With feet, with cuits, unshod, unhosed-but clean. XVI.

Pernicious beauties-doomed to captivate

The eye of Tam or Saunders, faithless swain. With smooth soft words he'll woo thee to thy fate, Believe him not-his oaths, his vows, are vain: True, he would come with cunning step, and late,

I doubt it not; thro' frost, and wind, and rain, Full many a mile he'd come-the lad is stout; But oh! consent not that he chap thee out.*

XVII.

Else, ere the circling year its round shall speed,
Alas! what bitter fortune may be thine ;-

I prithee, simple damosel, take heed,—
Restrain thee, Grizzy, at my warning line:
Think on the doom may be thy folly's meed,-
Yon solemn elders, yon austere divine,
Think with what frowns, they'll hear thy sad con-
fession;

Ah! think, fair maiden, think on the Kirk-Session.

XVIII.

No touch of tender mercy melted ever

The iron hearts of that barbaric crew; Yea, though thine eye be fruitful as a river,

With grave, stern glance, thy misery they'll view: They'll call thee harlot, strumpet, Godless-liver, Unclean, a castaway, a tainted ewe,

A Jesabel, a painted, pranked fool

And end with, " Grizzy, mount the cutty-stool."

Chappin out, is the phrase used in many parts of Scotland to denote the slight tirl on the lozen, or tap at the window, given by the nocturnal wooer to his mistress. She instantly throws her cloak about her, and obeys this signal; her sisters lend their assistance to conceal the manoeuvre, if concealment appear necessary, but the custom is so common, that few, even of the severest parents, take any offence at their children for complying with it.

"Ne'er fash your thumb, gudeman, lie still,"

Quoth then the lassie's minny,

"Ye ken ye chappit out mysel

Till I was big wi' Jeanie."-OLD SONG.

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